“Please, sir, it was me,” said Matt, remorsefully.
“Oh, it was you, was it? Then here’s bang! bang! bang! for ye.” And as he spoke the angry little man accentuated each “bang” with a vicious thwack. Then his eye caught sight of Matt’s copy-book. In lieu of ranged columns of figures was a rough pen-and-ink sketch of a line of great war-ships overhung by smoke-clouds, and apparently converging all their batteries against one little ship, on whose deck a stalwart man stood solitary, wrapped in a flag.
McTavit choked with added rage.
“D-defacin’ your books agen. What—what d’ye call that?” he spluttered.
“Blockade,” said Matt, sulkily.
“Blockhead!” echoed McTavit, and was so pleased with the universal guffaw (whereof the cute and ready took advantage to compare notes as before) that he contented himself with the one slash that was necessary to drive the jest home. But it was one slash too much. Matt’s vocal cannonade had been purely involuntary, but he was willing to suffer for his over-vivid imagination. The last insult, however—subtly felt as an injury to his dead father, too—set his blood on fire. He suddenly remembered that this blockhead was, at any rate, the “head” of a family; that he could no longer afford to be degraded before the little ones, who were looking on with pain and awe. He rose and walked towards the door.
“Where are ye goin’?” cried McTavit.
“To find Captain Kidd’s treasure. I’ve learned all I want to know,” said Matt.
“Ye’d better come back.”
Matt turned, walked back to his seat, possessed himself of his half-empty copy-book, and walked to the door.